The battlefield lay in eerie silence. Smoke still curled into the crimson sky, and the acrid smell of fire clung to the air. Broken weapons and shattered armor littered the ground like discarded memories of a war already lost. The soldiers who had remained frozen or scattered earlier now regrouped shakily, eyes wide with disbelief and terror.
The same soldier who had charged at Arion before rose to his feet once more, trembling violently. His armor was dented and scorched, sword gripped so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "I… I will stop you this time!" he shouted, voice quivering, trying to rally some semblance of courage.
Arion turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the soldier. His expression was calm, detached, like someone observing an ant struggling in the dirt. Yet within that calm, something stirred—a faint ripple of power that seemed to respond to his will without thought or effort.
"Do you really think a weapon can harm me?" Arion asked, voice soft, yet carrying a weight that made the soldier stagger back.
The soldier's eyes widened. "I… I… I must try! For my kingdom… for honor!" He raised his sword high, the tip glinting with firelight. "I will not flee!"
"Very well," Arion murmured, almost as if humoring him.
The soldier lunged forward, every muscle straining, every ounce of desperation focused into the swing. Steel met air—except the sword never reached its target. The metal dissolved midair, crumbling into fine dust that sparkled briefly before falling to the scorched ground.
"No… no! This isn't possible!" the soldier screamed, staggering as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. He looked down at the remnants of his sword, disbelief and terror warring across his face. "It… it just… disappeared!"
Another soldier shouted, voice trembling: "It's magic! It's… it's a curse!"
Arion's eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained calm. "Not magic. Not curse. Simply… impossible." His words were a whisper, yet they carried an undeniable authority. The air around him seemed to hum, a subtle vibration that made the ground underfoot quiver.
The soldiers around him exchanged panicked glances. One whispered, barely audible: "If a single sword can't touch him… what chance do we have?"
The soldier on his knees looked up, pale and trembling. "I… I can't… I… I…"
"Enough," Arion said, voice cutting through the murmurs. He lifted a hand slightly, and the soldier froze mid-motion, as if caught in invisible chains. "Stand. Or fall. It is your choice."
The man's lips trembled. "I… I choose… to live…"
Arion inclined his head faintly. The soldier collapsed to the ground, too terrified to move, yet alive. Around them, the battlefield seemed to acknowledge the unspoken rule: life and death hung in balance, dictated not by skill or bravery, but by the force that stood before them.
A commander, hiding behind a scorched barricade, shouted orders, voice cracking with fear: "Regroup! Attack him together! Use every man—" His words faltered as the air shifted subtly, carrying a quiet warning. Some soldiers fell back instinctively, unable to move forward. Others simply stared, paralyzed by the presence of something they could not comprehend.
"You see," Arion said softly, almost to himself, "one cannot strike that which refuses to be struck."
A young soldier, barely older than a boy, whispered, voice shaking: "He… he's a god…"
"No," Arion murmured, the words drifting like smoke, "not a god… something else. Something… unbound."
From the distance, a tower collapsed, sending a cascade of stone and fire toward the battlefield. Soldiers screamed, scattering, but none of it seemed to matter. Arion's gaze flicked to the falling debris, and without moving, he shifted his hand slightly. The stones halted midair for a heartbeat before falling harmlessly to the ground, crushing nothing.
The soldier who had attempted to strike him finally sobbed, falling face-first onto the ground. "Please… spare me… I… I beg of you…"
Arion's eyes lingered on him for a long moment. The power within him pulsed softly, a rhythm like a heartbeat echoing through the air. "I spare those who deserve it… for now," he said, voice calm, almost gentle, yet carrying an edge that made every man present shiver.
Nearby, a group of soldiers whispered among themselves, panic rising in each word. "He's unstoppable… even a hundred swords couldn't—no… not even an army…"
Arion took a step back, surveying the ruined battlefield. Smoke and fire swirled in the wind, ash falling like snow over shattered shields and broken weapons. Somewhere, faintly, the cries of the wounded and dying echoed, but they were distant, almost irrelevant. He had awoken in chaos, and chaos had noticed him in return.
A child's voice rang out suddenly from a nearby ruined house: "Who… who are you?"
Arion turned, eyes flickering toward the sound. Curiosity stirred faintly, an ember in the depths of his detachment. "I… do not yet know," he said softly, almost to himself. "But I will learn."
And as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the ruined city, one truth became painfully clear to anyone watching: if a single sword could not harm him, then no army, no weapon, and no force of men could ever hope to stop what had begun.
The battlefield was silent once more, save for the crackling of distant fires and the occasional groan of the wounded. Arion stood alone amidst the ruin, calm, powerful, and utterly unbound.